


Dig Dig Dig Right In

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 18:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18016061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: If I knew you were coming I’d’ve baked a cake, hired a band, kept the pot.Or;A truth cake delivers truths.





	Dig Dig Dig Right In

“Well, we might as well have fun with it,” Roz says.

“It’s not exactly something to have fun with, necessarily. I mean, it’s not not fun. But it’s not like. A dirt bike or something. It’s who I am. As a living entity.” Roz considers. Susie leans over the table at Doc Cee’s conspiratorially, says in a hushed tone,

“But is it something we should be discussing in public?”

“If you have to ask, the answer is probably no,” Hilda says as she sets down a tray of nachos, careful to miss Susie. “Sorry to intrude. If this is about your upcoming sleepover, pretend I didn’t hear anything.”

Roz opens her mouth, but Sabrina kicks her shin under the table, says a little over-enthusiastically,

“You’re the best, Auntie Hilda.” Hilda narrows her eyes but then remembers what it’s like to be a teenager with teenager secrets. 

“Be sure to put that in your yelp review,” she says as she leaves. They all watch her, wait till she’s safely behind the counter. Roz whispers,

“So?”

“Isn’t Never Have I Ever fun enough without—” Sabrina starts, but Susie says,

“Sorry, but I’m with Roz on this one. If you must be a witch, might as well have some fun magic, too, instead of an apocalypse all the time. That’s two votes for magical Truth Cake.”

Sabrina rolls her eyes but acquiesces:

“I’ll look at the recipe tonight and make sure I have all the ingredients.”

“And I’ll bring the sparkling wine,” Susie says. They both look at her with a little alarm. “What?! It’ll just be us. Why shouldn’t we live a little?”

xxx

There had been a miscommunication.

Hilda and Zelda, in reality, agree on a lot of things. They agree that Sabrina needs to be granted a certain amount of space and independence and responsibility to show they trust her and acknowledge her maturity. They also agree that her friendships with mortals are important to her and will ultimately teach her things—although Hilda leans toward the optimistic side and Zelda the pessimistic side of the kinds of lessons to be learned. 

They both also had agreed that only one aunt need be present for the sleepover and that that one aunt should be available if called upon for something but removed from the action—a back-up rather than a chaperone.

What they had not agreed on, however, was which aunt that would be. Or rather, they had thought they’d agreed, but, in reality, they hadn’t.

But Hilda and Zelda these days mostly communicate through body language, sighs, vague pronouncements, small talk, perhaps a touch on the shoulder. They don’t talk as they ought to anymore. Haven’t for a long time and don’t think about why or why not or how long. They certainly don’t think about how much they miss it.

And so, Ambrose—who had not been in the running as not-chaperone anyhow—is at a men-only Church of Night retreat, and Hilda is at a giddy all-night session with her quilting club, and Zelda is plunking out choral arrangements before she falls asleep uncomfortably draped over the piano at the Academy while Sabrina is baking a perfect Truth Cake on her second try. 

The first try had turned out to be a Lie Brownie.

She had taken the flat, ugly thing out of the oven and had compared it to the illustrations in the recipe book. She had flipped a few pages and had compared again. They all had huddled around and looked and poked and theorized, and finally, Sabrina had cut a tiny slice out of the upper left corner. She had furrowed her brow as she’d chewed. Her friends had looked at her expectantly, and she had said,

“I hate both of you so much.” Her brow had furrowed further, and then she had laughed.

“Well that settles it,” Roz had said. “Now we’ve got to figure out the Truth Cake and switch to Two Truths and a Lie.”

xxx

The Truth Cake had been all right, but the girls had had more fun with the Lie Brownie, which is now gone, along with two and a half bottles of sparkling wine.

They are just a tad hungover, what with all the sugar and alcohol and truths and lies, and they are making a fatty, greasy hangover breakfast as Hilda and Zelda arrive home at the same time.

They stare at each other on the porch. 

“Where have you been?” they both say.

“I told you I would be working on choral arrangements,” Zelda says.

“We have a perfectly good piano at home,” Hilda says.

“And you can quilt anywhere,” Zelda says. “And apparently you have been.” They both look at the door.

“So who’s flying the plane?” Hilda says.

Zelda rolls her eyes and opens it.

They all put on fake smiles and pretend they had planned it this way.

xxx

The girls leave. They’ve got other teenager things to do in other teenager locations.

The breakfast had been ok but not quite satisfying to two grown witches who had been up all night and hadn’t been expected and counted as consumers when the breakfast had been prepared.

“I’m still peckish,” Hilda says.

“Me, too,” Zelda says as she turns a page in her newspaper. “Why don’t you scrounge around for something. Maybe they ordered a pizza without us.” Hilda catches a little heat in Zelda’s tone, but she starts scrounging anyway. She opens the refrigerator.

“There’s half a cake in here.” Zelda puts down her newspaper, says with a little humor now,

“I’ve got the forks if you’ve got the time.”

xxx

They’re sitting across the table from each other, the cake now crumbs. They both realize at the same moment they’ve been staring at each other.

“Quite good. Was it someone’s birthday?” Hilda says to fill the yawning, suddenly strange silence.

Zelda lights a cigarette. She flinches at the click of her lighter. Something’s off. Or something’s on. There’s a zip of magic in the air, and she’s on edge. 

“I don’t care,” Zelda says.

“You could’ve said you didn’t know. No need to be rude about it.” Hilda feels the same zip, and it’s hot in the breakfast nook. She takes off her cardigan. Zelda finds she can’t even pretend not to watch.

“I need a drink,” Zelda says.

“Do you? It’s ten in the morning.” Zelda cocks her head, can’t reply other than candidly,

“No, I don’t need one, and I shouldn’t have one, but I want one. Or more likely upwards of four.” She stands, starts toward the parlor. Hilda stands, too. She’s somehow compelled to say,

“I think I’ll have between two and five, have a row with you, and take a bath.” Zelda wheels around, and there’s fire in her eyes.

“Oh, I’m definitely having upwards of four. And I might kill you around number six.” She wheels back around and stalks straight to the wet bar, starts throwing ice into glasses. Hilda’s close behind, and she can feel fire in her own eyes as she says,

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“You absolute fool. You talked me into allowing this teenage romp without adult supervision. And now you’ve got to go and talk about having a bath. I know your euphemisms, Hildegard.” Hilda scoffs,

“I’m too tired for that. And anyway, it’s none of your business!”

“Exactly! It’s none of my business!”

Zelda downs a whiskey, and they stare at each other. The magic from the kitchen is even stronger now, a heavy pulse rather than a light zip, and Hilda sits down.

“Pour me one, please.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Zelda spits. She pours herself another and then sloshes one for Hilda. “Are you coming over to get it, or shall I spoon it into your mouth, as well?”

“I thought you could bring it over and sit by me.”

“That’s certainly a thought,” Zelda says.

They stare at each other again, and the magic throbs, reverberates against chest cavities and ear drums.

“Satan alive, it’s hot in here!” Hilda sheds another layer—now she’s down to camisole and slacks. Zelda sips at her whiskey this time, but it’s not distracting enough for her to not say,

“It is not hot in here. You’re doing that on purpose.” Hilda pulls a face, walks over to take her drink to clear her confusion. It doesn’t work. She says,

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You know damn good and well no one talked you into anything. We didn’t talk, so we didn’t know what was happening. Nobody’s fault but our own. And the house isn’t burnt down, and none of the kids are toads, so all’s well that ends well.”

“You’re standing awfully close to me. And I’ve already told you my tentative plans for the day. So.” Hilda gauges her distance. It seems a reasonable conversational distance to her, but Zelda’s in a mood. She decides she’s in a mood, too—she has already decided to have a row, after all—and takes a half step closer:

“So.” 

Zelda takes a half step back, right into the bar. Glasswear jingles. She reaches behind her, knowing fingers finding the ice pick. She brandishes it with a twirl:

“So.” 

Hilda takes another half step closer.

“You’re bluffing. You don’t even like killing me with the ice pick.”

“I don’t particularly like killing you at all. But I’m not bluffing.” Hilda pauses. Zelda pauses. The magic waxes, a wave washing over both of their still forms.

“Now that’s interesting,” Hilda says. The wave wanes, and Zelda shakes herself out of it first, drops the ice pick, pushes past Hilda, says,

“Is it?” as their shoulders brush. She crosses to the settee. Hilda doesn’t turn, doesn’t want to see Zelda’s face when she asks,

“Why do you do it, then?” She doesn’t expect the quickness of the response:

“I like to torture myself.” Hilda does turn then,

“Too bad you can't leave my body out of it.” Zelda barks one laugh. The magic swells again, and Hilda feels things in her brain rearranging. “You can’t be serious.” Zelda laughs again, still that angry laugh, says,

“If only I weren’t.” She knocks back the rest of her drink, and Hilda brings the decanter with her to the settee, refills both their glasses. She sets the decanter on the side table, sets her jaw.

“You want to elucidate on that?” Hilda hisses. Zelda stares at her over her own glass.

“No.”

The air is thick with magic. Hilda runs her tongue along the insides of her teeth, tasting the cake again. Her brain is just about rearranged enough to get it. There are several things here to get, and she’s only one person. Perhaps Zelda could help. She means to ask about the free-floating, rather menacing and uncomfortable and maddening magic but says instead,

“Mother always said never to ask a question like that if you weren’t prepared to accept no as the answer. I’ll rephrase: Please explain yourself.”

Zelda is not getting it, either. But to her credit, she’s not trying. She’s too busy being furious. Furious with herself, furious with her sister. Furious with the swirling in her stomach and the heartbeat headache behind her eyeballs that this ridiculous magic surge have incited. She traces a finger over her glass, making a lazy pattern in the sweat of it.

“I can’t leave your body out of my torture because it is the torture in the first place.” She doesn’t understand how she’s said it so easily or how she hasn’t broken her glass and thrust a sliver of it into Hilda’s flushed throat already.

“Huh. No wonder your favorite is strangulation.” Hilda pours them both another and then lays herself out on the settee, swinging her legs into Zelda’s lap.

“Excuse me?!” Zelda says. She bats Hilda’s legs away and stands.

“Oh, was that inaccurate? What is your favorite, then?” Hilda reaches into her trouser pocket, retrieves a monogrammed handkerchief. Zelda’s watching her pat sweat off her forehead, neck, chest as she answers,

“No, you’re right. It’s strangulation.” Hilda unbuckles her belt.

“Sweet Beelzebub. What’s the furnace set on?!” She unbuttons her pants, begins sliding them down her legs.

“There’s no way you’re not doing this on purpose! After what I just told you!” She’s fighting the desk drawer that always sticks and then pulling out her second favorite murder weapon: a .38 revolver with polished cherrywood grips.

“I swear I’m not. But wouldn’t I be clever if I were?”

Zelda checks the cylinder. She’s got six hollow points and a heart full of reasons for using all of them. She doesn’t aim just yet, as the rhetorical question has stuck in her brain, and she shouts a strangled shout,

“Clever! Not what I would call it!” 

Hilda resettles on the settee. The handkerchief’s busy again. She’s swiped it against her glass to capture some cool condensation and is now pulling the slightly moistened cloth down her neck as she laughs, then says,

“You’re a fool, too, you know.”

Zelda could swear the floorboards just moved beneath her. But it’s just the magic again, rattling, trying to jostle them both into something.

“You want to elucidate on that?” Zelda growls, aiming now. Well, weighing her aiming options, anyhow. She likes a shot to the heart. Symbolic and quick. Anywhere else is more clean up but also more fun in some ways. More pain here, more grotesquerie there. A perfect intestinal shot takes out a certain nerve in the spine that cuts the pain and gives her some time to hold Hilda as the life recedes from her eyes, and it’s almost pleasant for both of them. Probably not her pick for this morning with how keyed up she is.

Hilda in her periphery sees Zelda playing with the gun but doesn’t pay much mind to it. She’s too overheated and lulled into calm lethargy by mysterious magic to worry.

“Yes. I do, in fact, want to elucidate. You think it wouldn’t be clever of me for two reasons.” Zelda perks up at that forthright and unexpected response, sits back on the desk with the gun loosely in one hand, her glass tightly in the other. “First, you think I’m stupid for provoking you when you’re already feeling murderous. As if I’m afraid of you or death or both. Second, you think I’m stupid for provoking you when you’ve as much as admitted you want to fuck me. As if I don’t want you to.” Hilda jolts up so straight and so fast, realizing what she’s just let slip out of her mouth—no—what she’d had to say and couldn’t stop if she’d tried. 

Their wide eyes meet.

“What?” 

“Don’t make me say it again,” Hilda says, almost a whisper, and she swallows the rest of her drink.

Zelda drops the gun to the desktop, walks over to stand directly in front of Hilda.

“I never thought you’d let me,” Zelda says, also almost a whisper.

“Well, you never thought to ask, either, did you?”

Zelda pours them both another, clinks their glasses together.

“I’ll drink to that,” Zelda says.

The magic rumbles around them and in them. And then, the switch that had been wavering flips in her brain, and Hilda gets it.

“Hounds of Hades, Zelds!” Zelda lights a cigarette and waits. She knows Hilda’s yelling about something that isn’t this, and she wants to know how the different things connect, what flowchart Hilda has followed just now. She doesn’t like how much she likes the way Hilda’s mind works. Hilda grasps her free hand with her own free hand. “Didn’t that cake taste familiar to you?!”

“Most orange chiffons taste like that,” Zelda says.

“Most orange chiffons are Truth Cakes!”

They stare at each other, hands gripping each other.

“Fuck and a half,” Zelda says under her breath as she retreats.

“And the horse you rode in on,” Hilda says, also under her breath as she sinks into the settee.

They both down their drinks.

There is a long, silent pause. The magic seems smug.

“What number drink are you on?” Hilda says finally. Zelda’s in an armchair a half a room away, and she thinks, counts silently.

“Five,” Zelda says.

“You’ve got one more until you kill me.”

“And if I don’t kill you?”

Their eyes meet.

“We’ve already discussed this. I’m too tired for that,” Hilda says.

“I’ll do all the work.” Zelda’s eyes have a fire in them, but it’s no longer angry. Just burning. And Hilda’s already burning anyway. She slides the camisole over her head, deposits it on the floor. Zelda watches the whole time, licks her lips. “And Satan, it’s nice work if you can get it.”

They stare at each other another long moment, and then Hilda says,

“Are you on a union break or what, then?”

“You said you were tired,” Zelda says even as she’s pushing herself up out of the chair.

“And you said you’d do all the work.” Hilda’s unclasping her bra as she speaks.

The magic swells again, encompasses them, strokes them, encourages them.

“And I meant every word,” Zelda says, hands on Hilda’s tits, lips at Hilda’s throat. The magic magics. Hilda says,

“I know.”

Hilda’s hands find Zelda’s hips, pull them down to her own. They grind together, and then Zelda says,

“Will you kiss me?”

They kiss, and it’s not nice, but it’s sweet. And the magic is around them, pushing and pulling them. Tongues and teeth push and pull. 

“If you don’t fuck me soon, I’ll be begging you to kill me,” Hilda rasps against Zelda’s mouth. Zelda maneuvers a hand underneath the waistband of Hilda’s panties. But she also closes a hand around Hilda’s throat. She drags a finger down and up to Hilda’s clit, tightens her grip on her neck.

“Which do you prefer?” Zelda says.

“I’ve only had experience with the one. Probably ought to have the other for reference,” Hilda chokes out.

Zelda laughs. The magic seems to laugh. 

Zelda crawls down Hilda’s body and positions herself between her thighs, tears away the white cotton panties, plunges her face there.

It’s all sharp and sour and bitter and sweet and heat and wet and Hilda. She tastes and smells and feels feels feels. She feels and takes. She takes and gives. She gives and receives. It’s her tongue and her fingers and her lips and her work here. Soon, there are spasms, and there is tension, and there is cursing, and there is release, and still she works because there is joy in honest labor.

“Do you have a preference now?” Zelda says, face still glistening.

“I knew that’d be my preference. And so did you.”

“But you never thought to ask, did you?” Zelda says.

They look at each other. 

Finally Hilda says,

“I’ll drink to that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Together-as-sisters tumblr challenge.
> 
> And don’t we all just love old-timey music? What’s that about?


End file.
